Visiting Hours
by Oni Mathier
Summary: Ratchet never realized that becoming CMO of the Autobots entailed so much more than what was on his duty statement. If he had any inkling, a career change would have been in order. Fluff featuring various fanon pairings and one loveable 'ol medic.


**Visiting Hours**

Transformers (G1) Verse  
Characters: Ratchet & mention of various other fanon pairings

Rating: PG

Warnings: Mentions of mechxmech relations, but nothing explicit. Writing of the light and fluffy kind (blink, blink).

Disclamer: I still do not own Transformers, though my mail-order lawyer informs me it's in the works.

_A/N: Another silly piece that struck me in the middle of work…oops._

If you were to ask me what exactly my job is in the Autobots, depending on my present mood you might get a very different answer. When Spike asked me right after I finished a 13 hour rebuild of Sideswipe's left leg because he decided to do a swan dive off of Skywarp my answer was fairly succinct.

"I fix idiots."

I recall another time when my apprentice, Swoop put forth a similar inquiry. Now, his timing was slightly better, but only marginally so. I was just finishing a double shift in the med bay. He received the abridged version of my severely defunct duty statement and I told him that if he wanted specifics to look it up on Teletran 1. You know? That multimillion credit super computer that is part sentient machine?

Perhaps not a real charitable response, but I'd like to see the idiot who can do my job without developing the urge to maim and throw heavy, hard objects at equally dense helms.

Of course, there are those sparse moments when I am feeling 'nice' and have had several brimming cubes of high grade or a really good 'face...sometimes both. The mood will strike me to wax philosophically and that special kind of craziness on the Ark is viewed through rose-tinted optics. It's times like this when the deeply hidden (stomped down into a flattened pile of submission) romantic aspect of my personality surfaces for an all too brief moment.

I'll say that I'm the caretaker of the crew's sparks—the one responsible for keeping them whole in many ways more than just the physical. Not an easy task with these hooligans, but I somehow manage.

It's during those late hours when most of the bots are recharging and only a skeleton crew remains that my med bay receives its most special visitors. Typically visitors who, for one reason or another, can not make it to the berth side of one of my patients during normal hours of visitation.

The twins can be expected in the sense that when one is my guest, the other is never far. Deny it as they may. I've given up on kicking them out—it just ends up being more work than I feel like doing. Plus, the backlog of blackmail data that I have on those two hellions far outweighs the processor ache I get to suffer through. Did you know that Sunstreaker hums to Sideswipe when the red hellion is out? Yes, hums! Never heard him sing, but he has a fairly good set of vocals for humming. The wistful expression on his faceplates is as well. Typically mo-town hits strangely enough…

Then there's our favorite, aloof spy. Never fails when his nature-loving mate is checked in for whatever organic romp he has taken, Mirage stops in as well. Not that anyone would know when he is there, the damn noble likes to be invisible at the oddest of times. I've learned to leave a chair out and give it a wide berth when Hound is under my care. Saves some embarrassment later for the both of us.

I can't even begin to tell you how much of a pain it is to have Bumblebee as a guest. That happy-go-lucky minibot may always be painfully pleasant as a patient, but his cohorts have an annoying habit of getting…underfoot. Blasted younglings don't have a nanobit of self preservation instinct, let alone common sense. The last thing I need is to have to take additional time out of my day by having to explain to Sparkplug why exactly his kid and the kid's girlfriend were squished by a spare pede. Plus there's the nasty mess I would have to clean up and then the hours of counseling Bumblebee will have to go through with Smokescreen to work through his new issues.

Yeah, I figure it's just simpler to put out a ladder to Bee's med berth and overlook his organic visitors. Less stress on the old fuel pump.

Ah, and of course there is my favorite pair of mystery visitors. If one of them is injured, it never fails that the other will sneak in after hours (usually during Wheeljack's shift—mech couldn't keep guard if he was glued to one spot). It doesn't help that both of the mechs are too good at breaking into (and out of) secure areas for their own good. Again, I've resigned myself to leaving an empty chair nearby (next to the berth would be too obvious) knowing that at some point in the wee hours it will be put to use. The next morning, I can expect it to be back in the exact same position that I left it in.

Of course, neither of the two idiots is privy to this particular phenomenon and I have never been one to _directly _interfere.

Speaking of which…from the corner window of my office my optic catches a brief flash of white across the room. It only takes a few seconds, but suddenly there is a dark figure sitting next to the only unoccupied berth in my bay. Somehow, he always manages to get past the security cameras without leaving a trace. Even now, his chair is placed just in the shadow of the dim, overhead light above the med berth.

Jazz just returned from a black ops mission of some sort. He'd been gone for a week or so with absolutely no communication, but was still in the "safe" parameters of his mission's specs. Ergo, no alarm had been raised yet, but certain bots were starting to get a little edgy. Then he just drives up to the Ark in alt mode this morning, frame all torn to hell and leaking who knows what from where. After a (shaky) transformation he proceeded to report a successful completion of his mission to the mech on guard duty before proceeding to pass out and fall on his face at Ironhide's pedes.

I won't lie—he was a mess—but 16 hours of my labor later he finally looks…less of a mess. He's also sedated. I've learned a long time ago that when one of our Ops mechs graces my bay after a mission, a little reinforced rest via a heavier dose of meds goes a long way.

Keeping absolutely still, I watch as a lone, white servo rises. Momentarily it halts in mid air as if in consideration of something before continuing its journey and lightly caressing a jet black helm. It's difficult to see his expression in the low light and I don't dare move and draw attention to myself. Even then, from his silhouette I can make out the low set of his door wings and the bowed helm. Optics are dim—more than likely with concern and deep-seated fear—and seemingly fixed on the still form before them.

I feel a little like a voyeur, but hey, they're pulling this slag in my bay. Besides, I couldn't turn away if I wanted to. I watch him tenderly smooth a servo over what I imagine are the myriad of weld lines criss-crossing his form. Carefully his digits follow each from start to finish. This is a ritual he's done before many a time. It has nothing to do with him checking the quality of the repairs. It probably serves more as a reminder than anything else. Of how easy it is to mess with life. I imagine he acts this boldly because he knows how heavily sedated Jazz has to be in order for him to be kept under for any length of time that will make my repairs worth it. I'm sure the dumb aft has screwed with his own coding to make himself less susceptible to drugging. If he's had help doing it, Primus help whoever that mech is.

I've never stopped Jazz's sentinel from his behavior because I see no reason not to. Unbeknownst to either they love doing this secret little berthside vigil with each other and who am I to interfere? When we've all lost so much, how can I take away something that obviously soothes both of their damaged beings. Although…there really isn't a reason for this subterfuge. Not anymore anyways.

Suddenly, Prowl's posture stiffens and the absolute lack of motion is obvious—his servo is stopped mid-stroke and hangs unsteadily between them. Heh. And now I can see why.

From the berth, a previously dark optic band has at some point onlined brilliantly, washing the white faceplates hovering above it in a ribbon of turquoise. For a frozen moment, a staring match ensues. Blue light clashing as the tableau is just about broken. I hold my intakes, waiting. I can just imagine how charged the energy is around them. Hell, if 'Jack walked in the whole room would probably implode.

After a few more moments of breathless stillness, the mech seated hesitantly continues his caress of the other. It's strange to see him so timid. Almost docile. Neither of these bots are ever anything less than sure of themselves and their actions. It's a quality that both makes me want to rip out my own diodes and fall on my knee plates and thank someone that they're online and on the side of the Autobots. I can see the very moment that their fear changes and is replaced with something else. Something more powerful and dangerous and altogether beautiful.

Two servos—one a pearl white, the other a black darker than night—gently close around each other, twining tightly together.

Satisfied, I finally feel free to leave my window lookout and gently (quietly) drop my heavy form into my favorite chair. Shifting around in a drawer I find a random cube of high grade—probably Sideswipe's horrid brew—and take a deep, satisfying drag. Funny. Jazz wasn't scheduled to regain consciousness until late this morning. I guess I somehow messed up the dosage. My bad.


End file.
